


self control

by hatsuna



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, mentioned atsuhina, or an attempt at angst lol, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:22:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22786360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hatsuna/pseuds/hatsuna
Summary: “Now and then you miss it, sounds make you cry.Some nights you dance with tears in your eyes.”
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 42
Kudos: 495





	self control

**Author's Note:**

> hi guys! this is my first sakuatsu fic i'm posting. it’s a song fic (“self control" by frank ocean), which i've never really found myself drawn to until now. hope you enjoy!
> 
> russian translation by @ nordanvjnd on twt (mads_bergman on ao3) [here!](https://ficbook.net/readfic/9653298)

_"Keep a place for me, for me._

_I’ll sleep between y’all, it’s no thing."  
  
_

Playing on the MSBY Jackals should have been a dream. Sakusa Kiyoomi conceded that in many ways, it was. He was fortunate enough to spend hours every week doing something he loved, and he got paid for it. Sponsors took attention to him. He was comfortable for the foreseeable future.

And then he realized he had a miserable crush on the team’s setter, Miya Atsumu, and the comfort dissipated. Kiyoomi had known Atsumu since high school, when the blond and his twin would be at the training camps he attended. Truthfully, Atsumu had never struck him as particularly handsome or humorous back when they were seventeen. Instead, what Sakusa nursed was the kind of crush that crept up on you, lingering in the shadows until it pounced when you finally thought you were settled.

Kiyoomi thought he’d settled onto his new pro team after he was fresh out of college. But then the warm feeling flashed through his stomach when twenty-three year-old Atsumu—obnoxious, entitled, and sarcastic as ever—laughed, and Kiyoomi knew something was very, very wrong.

He tried to ignore it for quite some time. Excuses weren’t difficult to fabricate when he truly didn’t enjoy physical contact, but he made an absurd amount of them when it came to Atsumu. He rejected any advances from the blond, even when they were likely platonic. It set the precedent of careful distance between them. Kiyoomi liked this distance. It made him feel safe, even if there were times he wished he were closer to Atsumu.

 _”Why are ya like that, Omi-kun?”_ Atsumu had asked after a month playing on the same team. They were packing up at the end of practice.

 _“Like what?”_ Kiyoomi had scoffed, putting on his jacket.

 _“Ya know,”_ Atsumu had said, putting down his water bottle to gesture at the space between them, _“so far away even when we’re like a foot apart.”_ He’d let out a laugh, but then quieted suddenly. _“Ya don’t have to be so guarded, man.”_

It had been an invitation for Kiyoomi to open up, and just barely, he accepted it. Afterall, maybe it was childish to put his personal feelings before the well-being of the team, which was intrinsically tied to a setter’s relationship with his spikers. Atsumu started walking with Kiyoomi to the train station after practice, and the chasm between them closed by a few inches.

But if there’s any sort of distance, someone is bound to crawl their way into the space between.

Hinata Shouyou was that person. He was back from Brazil, bronzed and bold as ever. His skill had improved tremendously, and Kiyoomi knew at once that Atsumu was crushing on the redhead. There wasn’t much he could do about it. He had no control over the blond’s emotion, and even if his own advances could have shifted Atsumu’s attention from Hinata to himself, he wouldn’t have taken that chance. It was pitiful, Kiyoomi would admit, but he lacked that kind of courage. So he played up his sad, unreciprocated feelings as disgust, which no team member batted an eye at. Even when Atsumu and Hinata started dating, he managed to maintain his tight frown. He didn’t let anything deter him from his calculated facade.

But every once in a while, the feelings would resurface to make him cringe.

They’d just won their third set, and the elation in the locker room air was tangible. Kiyoomi had scored the winning point with a pinpoint set from Atsumu. He turned to give a thank you to the man, but froze in place when he saw Atsumu beside Hinata. He was staring into Hinata’s bright eyes as if they were the last lightsource on earth.

What would it feel like to be the subject under that warm gaze? What would it feel like to be the reason the blond was giving his crooked grin? What would it feel like to have that arm slung around his frame?

Sweaty and gross, but probably nice, above all else, Kiyoomi thought.

He tore his eyes away from the two, especially when Atsumu started leaning in towards Hinata and the redhead was standing on his tiptoes. It was an invasion of privacy, Kiyoomi told himself. It had nothing to do with the twist in his stomach when he saw Atsumu wrapping his arms around someone else.

Atsumu wasn’t his. There was no valid reason for why Kiyoomi had to will himself to remain silent; there shouldn’t have been anything for him to say. There was no justification for the metallic tang of blood as he realized how hard he’d been biting his tongue.

_  
“Now and then you miss it, sounds make you cry._

_Some night you dance with tears in your eyes.”_

The MSBY Black Jackal versus Schweiden Adlers had been a monumental game for many reasons. For one, it pitted the stars of the “monster generation” against one another. For another, it reunited dozens of high school volleyball alumni who came out to support their respective teammates who’d gone pro.

Team dinners were a regular occurrence after a winning match, but tonight members had split off to celebrate within their own groups, among old friends and new alike. Kiyoomi had wound up at Korean barbeque with Atsumu, Hinata, Bokuto, and Akaashi, who’d set for Bokuto in high school. It was a strange group to tag along with, but Osamu had to work all evening, and eating home alone after such a colossal win just seemed depressing, even by Kiyoomi’s independent standards.

“You should have seen the look on their faces when the ball landed on their side of the court!” Bokuto boomed, recalling a killer cross hit he’d made during the second set. He was speaking too quickly, as he often did about things that excited him.

“I did see. I played in the match as well,” Kiyoomi deadpanned in response.

Atsumu snorted from across the table. Kiyoomi hated that the noise made his insides feel numb. The blond earned a kick from Bokuto, but Kiyoomi figured he probably deserved one too, what with the way he was fixating on Atsumu again. He’d worked hard to suppress his feelings about the setter, and one win at one game wouldn’t reverse that progress, no matter how daring and confident it made him feel.

“Yeah, well you should've seen Hinata dig Kageyama’s first jump serve! Poor guy really thought he was goin' to get a service ace,” Atsumu gushed.

Normally Kiyoomi didn’t mind the blond’s ego-building comments for Hinata, but today they were making him decidedly bitter. _“Everyone played well. Not just your boyfriend,”_ he wanted to say. But he didn’t, because he’d resorted to silence months ago.

“I’ll admit, that was pretty awesome!" Bokuto bellowed, too loud for a public restaurant.

“The entire audience was on the edge of their seats,” Akaashi added calmly. He frowned at how quickly the liquid in Bokuto’s cup was disappearing. “And Bokuto-san, you’re going to want to slow down before you get woozy.”

Throughout the evening, Kiyoomi had learned several eclectic facts about Akaashi Keiji. He adored Onigiri Miya, and had been late to the match because he was buying food from said food stand. He was a weekly manga editor under a fairly successful publisher. He hadn’t considered playing volleyball in college, though Bokuto lauded that he would have been able to.

By Kiyoomi’s conclusions, Akaashi seemed to be an anomaly. He was a clear introvert, drained from the atmosphere of the bustling restaurant alone. When he spoke, his words were almost poetic. (“He was a literature major,” Bokuto had said, as if that explained Akaashi’s vernacular, which it kind of did.) He was also polite, careful not to overstep any boundaries. Kiyoomi appreciated that Akaashi hadn’t questioned the surgical mask he’d worn as they walked to the restaurant, or cocked his head at the way Kiyoomi crossed the street to avoid passing by a crowd of fellow pedestrians.

And yet, with all these characteristics considered, Akaashi had been friends with Bokuto since his first year of high school. Bokuto was as extroverted and eccentric as they came. He was run-on sentences and too-bright smiles and echoing laughs. Bokuto and his praised setter were contradictory in every sense of the word, but they clicked surprisingly well.

Kiyoomi caught a glimpse of Akaashi’s searching eyes studying Bokuto. Within them he saw the same reproach that would be directed towards a child, but alongside it, a startling compassion. It was clear that Akaashi was invested in Bokuto’s well-being, though Kiyoomi reckoned his teammate dismissed this care as friendliness. But he knew in an instant that Akaashi was smitten for his high school ace. He could see it in the way Akaashi’s lips pulled into a tight smile when Bokuto brushed him off, in the way he tapped the frame of his glasses when contemplating what to say to Bokuto.

Had Kiyoomi not been pining himself, these motions could have been justified as plain anxiety. Kiyoomi was pulled from his analysis of Akaashi by the sound of a shot glass being slammed against the table.

Hinata was wincing at the sound, though it was clear he was the one who’d created it.

“Ya can’t hold yer liquor for shit, Shou,” Atsumu quipped, stacking his boyfriend’s most recent emptied shot glass into the three others in their corner of the table.

Hinata, who was very clearly a lightweight, protested sloppily. “I’m fine, ‘Tsumu.”

If the red glow of his cheeks wasn’t enough of an indication of his intoxicated state, the way he was draping himself over Atsumu was.

Kiyoomi clenched his jaw. Those two were too close. He tried to convince himself it was his general distaste for contact, but he knew when he was lying to himself.

Atsumu sighed, letting his shoulder be weighed down by Hinata, who was now resting his head against him. He ruffled the orange hair affectionately, although it was clear he felt embarrassed for the others at the table. “I think that Hinata and I should get goin'.” He chuckled. “Wouldn’t want him to throw up in public.”

Hinata whined into Atsumu’s shoulder. “I’m not going to puke!”

“Sure, baby,” Atsumu said, already hoisting Hinata up. “Let’s get ya home.”

The sincerity in Atsumu’s voice prickled beneath Kiyoomi’s skin.

“Bye, Bokuto, Omi-kun. Oh, and it was nice to meet ya, Akaashi-san!” With that Atsumu ducked his head and herded Hinata out of the restaurant.

Perhaps it was his imagination, but Kiyoomi swore there was a palpable tension filling the air. He sipped his drink, trying not to chew on the end of his straw. Akaashi also looked unmoored, though Kiyoomi wasn’t sure why he’d be.

Bokuto, being Bokuto, didn’t seem to note the change in atmosphere. He continued pushing the conversation, complacent with Kiyoomi and Akaashi only adding in when it was polite. It was a talent, really, to be able to have a whole conversation with yourself, Kiyoomi thought. An exasperating talent, but still one he marveled at.

After a while, the inevitable breach in the steady flow of small talk came.

“Oh, man, I really gotta pee.” Bokuto shifted in his seat, face contorting in discomfort.

Kiyoomi sighed. Alas, with a great conversationalist often came several unnecessary comments. “Then use the restroom,” he said, not bothering to mask his annoyance.

“I was getting to that part!” Bokuto huffed, already standing up. “Don’t freak him out, Kiyoomi,” he warned, before directing a soft smile towards Akaashi.

“If he’s grown up around you, I’m sure he’s already scared.”

Bokuto laughed shamelessly as he walked away, though Kiyoomi had only been half-joking.

Akaashi traced Bokuto’s figure all the way across the restaurant to the restroom.

Kiyoomi observed him, eyes narrowing. “You like him.” It wasn’t a question.

He was met with a shrug, but the maroon in Akaashi's cheeks was clear confirmation.

Kiyoomi raised an eyebrow. “How long?”

“Probably since my first year,” Akaashi said. He looked almost wistful, as if he was replaying the scenes of their high school matches, which he probably was. That was a time when he and Bokuto must have been inseparable.

“That’s a long time to like someone, Akaashi-san.” There was no judgement in Kiyoomi’s voice.

“I suppose so,” Akaashi mused. “I can’t do anything about it though. I’ve tried to move on, but I’m always stuck on him.”

It was pathetic, probably, that Kiyoomi understood what he meant. He’d tried to forget about Atsumu. He’d pushed the blond’s nicknames for him out of his mind, tried to forget the feeling of him tapping his shoulder, and muted the sound of his arrogant laugh. It worked for the most part, but the rush of affection didn’t disappear. Instead, it was only as if the levels of it were dialed down, because they had to be.

“Are you going to tell him?” Kiyoomi asked.

“Maybe one day. But I don’t think it’d go over well.” Akaashi’s eyes were fixated past him, as if he were searching for someone else. It wasn’t difficult to determine who.

It was the answer Kiyoomi had expected, and yet he still felt a dull ache resonating in his chest. Perhaps it was empathy more than sympathy. “You can’t be sure of that,” Kiyoomi found himself saying. “He might be confused at first, but he’d come around,” he continued, because it was true. “He really cares about you, Akaashi-san.”

A soft smile graced Akaashi’s face. “Bokuto-san cares about everyone. Almost too much. He gives his heart out to so many people, to so many causes. I’m just one of those among a multitude.”

“Is that really important?”

“More than it should be.”

The silence that followed was tight. Akaashi twiddled his fingers. Kiyoomi could tell the man wanted to say more, but was either hesitating to or struggling to put it into words. Likely the former, given his eloquent rhetoric. After a few beats, Akaashi seemed to have resolved his internal conflict, for he gave a preparatory exhale.

“People like us don’t get things like that.” Akaashi looked at the now empty chairs on the opposite end of the table. It was where Hinata and Atsumu had been sitting.

Kiyoomi could picture the two enveloping each other, interlocking their hands shamelessly all throughout dinner. He swallowed. The subtle glance had punctured him more than any monologue he’d prepared himself to hear.

Akaashi was perceptive as well, it seemed, because he somehow managed to sense that Kiyoomi’s mouth had quirked into a frown below his mask. “Come on, let’s dance,” Akaashi said abruptly, gesturing towards the tiled floor in front of the live entertainment.

Sakusa Kiyoomi was not a dancer. For someone with military-precision in volleyball, it was laughable how uncoordinated he managed to be when it came to step-clapping. “I’d rather not.”

“Don’t worry, I can’t dance either,” Akaashi promised. Something dark settled in his eyes. “But alcohol clearly isn’t helping either of us let loose.”

Kiyoomi had to disagree, because if he were sober he surely wouldn’t have nodded absentmindedly. He wouldn’t have pushed in his chair and followed Akaashi to the dance floor. He wouldn’t have thrown his head back and grooved horribly to barely decent music. He wouldn’t have found his vision blurring with tears. He wouldn’t have caught Akaashi’s knowing gaze.

Akaashi didn’t mention the moisture in Kiyoomi’s eyes. He was good with not overstepping personal boundaries.

_“Give us, just tonight, night, night."_

Kiyoomi’s head had felt like it was going to explode these past few weeks. He couldn’t forget the image of Akaashi’s forlorn visage as he spoke about Bokuto. He couldn’t accept the fact that that was likely to become his reality with Atsumu if he didn’t do something to change it. So he did what he needed to: he asked Atsumu to stay after practice.

“It’s important,” was the only explanation he’d given when the blond asked what for.

Kiyoomi knew confessing to Atsumu was a foolish thing to do. He knew it wouldn’t change their relationship, especially not when Atsumu was head over heels for Hinata. But it was the only hope he had to ease some of the weight off of his chest, which had become heavy enough that it was affecting his game acumen.

He waited outside the gym, seated on a stone bench. It was winter, and he’d made sure to wear a thicker jacket to brace for the temperature drop of nightfall. The rest of the team had all headed home by now, giving small waves or nods to Kiyoomi on their ways out. Kiyoomi had counted on Atsumu being the last one to exit the locker room. He always took his sweet time during showers, and then ten more minutes haphazardly combing his fingers through his hair before ultimately deciding to gel it the same way he’d done for the past year.

“Thanks for waiting for me, Omi-kun!” Atsumu called a few minutes later as he closed the door behind him. “So, what are we here to talk about?” He gave a signature crooked grin.

Kiyoomi wondered if it was possible for a person to stay alive if they stopped breathing, because he swore his airway closed up at that. He’d been mulling over how to phrase his feelings without sounding creepy or awkward, but now he was out of time. Atsumu was waiting expectantly.

“Let’s buy drinks first,” was what he managed to choke out, which was not at all what he’d been going for. He gestured toward the vending machine a few feet away.

Atsumu looked confused, but only shrugged. “Uh, sure. What do ya want? It’ll be my treat.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Kiyoomi started, but Atsumu was already taking out his wallet.

“Nah, it’s cool. Plus, I know ya don’t like touchin' the buttons on these things anyways.” Atsumu punched the button for his black coffee. “You want mugicha?”

Kiyoomi didn’t really, but it was easier to nod than collect his voice and suggest a different drink. He hated how thoughtful Atsumu was, both with opting to buy and remembering his mysophobic idiosyncrasies. Atsumu was a smug asshole, but he was kinder than people gave him credit for.

“Thanks,” Kiyoomi said when Atsumu passed him his tea. He drank it greedily, since his throat had gone dry over the past few minutes.

Atsumu smiled a “you're welcome,” and they sat in silence a foot apart, sipping their drinks. Kiyoomi wished they could stay like this forever—close, alone, and quiet. When they were like this, there were no impulsive words he wanted to swallow back down. There was no judgement. When they were like this, Kiyoomi was comfortable.

By now, he should have known that comfort tended to be temporary.

“Why did you ask me to stay with ya, Omi-kun?” Atsumu asked into the night. He was looking straight ahead. As he spoke, his breath made white puffs in the cold air.

“Because you make my head hurt,” Kiyoomi spoke truthfully, before he could conceive a safer, more thoughtful response.

“Hey!” Atsumu brought a hand to his chest. It was difficult to tell whether his offense was feigned. “I’m not that annoyin'.”

“No, you most definitely are,” Kiyoomi countered. Then he lowered his voice. “But that’s not what I meant.”

Atsumu scratched at the back of his neck. “I don’t follow?”

“It’s annoying how much time I spend thinking about you. It’s annoying how sick I feel when I see you smile. It’s annoying how much pain you cause me, without even meaning to, and it’s annoying that I feel any pain at all, since I have no right to.”

Atsumu was silent, and Kiyoomi desperately wanted to zip his jacket over his head.

“That,” Atsumu said softly, “was the worst confession I’ve ever heard.”

Kiyoomi conceded it hadn’t been what he’d planned. “You don’t have to give a response. I know it’s uncomfortable for you, with Hinata and all.”

Kiyoomi knew he wasn’t anything like Hinata. If anything, he was the opposite. Whereas Hinata was short, Kiyoomi was gangly, all long limbs that he’d spent years learning to control. While Hinata was vibrant orange hair, Kiyoomi was careful, dark curls. Hinata was rounded edges, open windows, and bright smiles. Kiyoomi was sharp corners, tall walls, and polite smiles at best. It made sense that Atsumu was drawn to the redhead. It made sense, which was why it hurt Kiyoomi’s head.

If only he were different, maybe Atsumu would have felt different.

Atsumu made eye contact with him for the first time since they’d sat down. “It’s not really uncomfortable because of that.”

Kiyoomi put down his can of mugicha. “What do you mean?”

The blond sighed, as if it were painful to have to explain. “Omi-kun, I liked ya for _years_. Since high school, probably.”

Kiyoomi stopped breathing for the second time in the past thirty minutes. “What?”

Atsumu almost laughed. “I’m serious.”

“Why… Why didn’t I know? Why didn’t you try harder?”

It was a selfish question, really, and likely one that couldn’t be answered. Kiyoomi knew this. He knew this, and yet he needed that outspoken bluntness Atsumu had turned off in the moment of sensitivity. He needed a callous response to give him a necessary slap of reality.

Atsumu offered a soft smile. “I did try, Omi-kun. I tried really hard, for a long time. But ya never gave me anythin' in return.”

Kiyoomi thought back to the countless times where Atsumu had raised his hand for a high five, only to let it drop after he only received a pointed stare in return. He thought back to how he’d recoil when Atsumu tried to ruffle his hair. How he’d scowl when Atsumu tried to compliment him. How Atsumu would wait for him at the end of practice, offering to walk to the train station with him every night. Kiyoomi would only nod, letting Atsumu fill the space between them with static he mainly tuned out as they padded down the street.

He hadn’t even noticed when Atsumu stopped waiting for him.

Atsumu looked wistful now, brows furrowed and eyes glassy, and Kiyoomi wondered how something so sad could be so beautiful. “I couldn’t wait forever, Kiyoomi.”

Something about the use of his full name stung. Kiyoomi hadn’t realized how fond he’d grown of the ridiculous nicknames. He should have said something, anything while Atsumu was still close to him. But he couldn’t. He was frozen instead, hands folded in his lap. He was letting Atsumu slip through his fingertips all over again.

Strong arms wrapped around his frame. Atsumu tucked his chin over Kiyoomi’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice murky with something Kiyoomi couldn’t distinguish.

Kiyoomi wanted to say it was okay. He wanted it to be true, and for it all to stop hurting. He wanted to stop falling apart for someone who couldn’t put him back together anymore. He wanted too many unattainable things. So he did what he could, finally snaking his arms around Atsumu’s waist to hold him for as long as the blond permissed. The touch wasn’t as difficult to meld into as he’d expected. Sometimes things are easier when you know they’re happening for the last time.

When Atsumu pulled away, he seemed lighter, as if he’d finally gotten the closure he needed. Kiyoomi, on the other hand, felt raw, stripped to his barest elements. The air had been stolen out of his lungs once again, which had somehow become a regular motion in just one night. Hee bit his lower lip to prevent himself from panting.

Atsumu stood up, grabbing his practice bag. “Hey,” he said, that stupid, kind smile gracing his features again. “I’ll see ya later, Kiyoomi.” He turned over his shoulder and walked out of the door. He probably walked to the train station, the same way he’d walked with Kiyoomi for so many months. He probably got off at his usual station, then walked back to his apartment, where Hinata was surely waiting, and he probably kissed the redhead—stupid, slow, and sweet.

Kiyoomi drained the last few drops of mugicha before he crushed the can, letting himself revel in the feeling of the cool metal squashed in his hand.

He felt sick. It was humiliating that he was letting himself spiral. It was ridiculous to have let Atsumu go when he was younger. It was ridiculous he hadn’t even noticed he’d had Atsumu in the palm of his hand.

Kiyoomi liked precision. He liked maintaining a clean apartment, taking the utmost care of his hygiene, and organizing his schedule. He liked the way the parts of his life fit together, like standardized puzzle pieces interlocking. When Miya Atsumu entered Kiyoomi’s life, he was a bothersome piece that wouldn’t fit. Kiyoomi spent countless days on end trying to reconfigure his life to accommodate the strange addition. It was odd, Kiyoomi realized, that having that imperfect piece out of the puzzle of his life caused him so much anguish.

Everything was wrong. He hadn’t even noticed the tears falling until they were gluing his shirt to his chest. The sobs wracked his body, as a chill emanating from his chest shot down through his fingertips. He was shuddering, loud and hiccupy and _pathetic,_ but it felt so nice to be broken.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d stayed that way, hunched over himself on the bench. Probably too long, judging by the way his stomach rumbled as he trudged home. But the gnawing hunger was something to mask the dull ache of his brain, and that was enough. It would have to be.

_“You cut your hair but you used to live a blonded life.”_

Atsumu had gone out with Osamu and Suna to celebrate the expansion of Onigiri Miya into Tokyo, but his brother and his date had gone home earlier when Suna suddenly felt nauseous. Maybe in years past, being left alone would have been uncomfortable for Atsumu, but he’d grown accustomed to spending time with himself over the past few months. It didn’t scare him to be alone with his thoughts anymore.

But all plans of spending time in his own head slipped away when he saw a dark-haired man with a surgical mask sitting at the counter, stirring the straw in his glass. It could be anyone, Atsumu told himself. But how many people had two moles above their eye? Who else had a wrist that bent so effortlessly when they stirred their drink?

Kiyoomi felt loose, like liquid taking the form of whatever container it was shoved in. Alcohol normally burned, but it was soothing tonight. It had been far too long since he’d let himself drink without restraint, since he usually focused on maintaining a respectable public image, even among friends. But tonight was a special occasion, one where Kiyoomi deserved to have the edge of his vision blur.

“To make sure you’re actually interacting with other humans,” Komori had told him. “It’s good to go out!”

But the brunet had disappeared off onto the dance floor with some mystery man, leaving Kiyoomi sitting alone at the counter. Normally he was hyperconscious of his surroundings, but his acuity was fraying. He wasn’t sure how many drinks he’d had so far, but he felt like he could take another one. Kiyoomi stirred the straw of his glass, watching his wrist roll in circular motions.

“Hey.”

The voice was familiar, too familiar.

Kiyoomi stiffened. The thought of that next drink vanished.

Miya Atsumu was taking a seat beside him, and Kiyoomi felt like he was sixteen years old all over again, first eating lunch beside the boy at training camp.

His hair was the first thing Kiyoomi noticed. The honey-colored fringe was gone, replaced by jet black hair framing his face. But it still looked like he used twelve different products to style his hair, and it made it feel like Atsumu was pulled directly from Kiyoomi’s past.

It was strange how that was what made Kiyoomi stiffen—the change in Atsumu’s hair color. Perhaps it was because he always pictured Atsumu as young and reckless, and the bleached hair was an emblem of that. The coarse black hair swept back from his forehead was a dull reminder of how much time had passed.

“I thought that was you,” Atsumu said, resting his elbows on the counter.

Kiyoomi offered a wry smile in spite of himself. He kept stirring his straw, letting the repetition of it calm his racing heart. “Well, you thought right.”

“How are ya?” Atsumu asked, and Kiyoomi read between the lines.

“I’m better. I’m doing a lot better,” he answered, and it felt good that he wasn’t lying anymore.

Time had worked its wonders, and they’d grown apart, as many things once filled with love and light did. But sitting beside Atsumu underneath his watchful gaze made Kiyoomi feel like it was just yesterday he was spiking the setter’s tosses.

Kiyoomi moved teams after finishing out his year with MSBY Jackals. It had hurt to abandon the bond he’d built with his teammates, but the pain paled in comparison to what he felt when he saw Atsumu with someone else. It’d been a cowardly move, Kiyoomi knew, but he convinced himself it had been for the best. And then Atsumu had gone overseas for extended training, and it became even easier for him to drift out of Kiyoomi’s life. Jealousy plagued Kiyoomi for quite some time though, and he used to spend an obscene amount of time frowning as he imagined Atsumu and Hinata doing all the typical couple things he would have been too scared to do.

Absent-mindedly, Kiyoomi scanned the bar for the fiery head of red hair that he’d grown accustomed to seeing clung to Atsumu’s side.

Atsumu must have noticed his efforts, because he cleared his throat awkwardly. “Oh,” he said almost apologetically, “Hinata’s not here, if that’s who yer looking for. We broke up a few months ago.”

_Shit._

“Oh.” Kiyoomi wasn’t sure what to say in a situation like this. “Are you alright?”

“No, I’m fine, yeah,” Atsumu rushed. “I really am.” He sunk lower into his seat and gave a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s just weird to have someone be such a big part of yer life for so long, and then suddenly have them be so small, ya know?”

“I know what you mean.” A small, hushed part of Kiyoomi wondered whether Atsumu had ever felt the same way about him. “Was he not the right person for you?” The alcohol was making him excessively mushy.

Atsumu sighed. “Guess not. Towards the end I think we both had other people in mind.” The faintest blush crept over his cheeks.

“I see,” Kiyoomi said thickly. He took a sip from his glass.

Atsumu was staring at him again, similar to when he’d observe Kiyoomi stretching his wrists. It was the kind of stare that was both admiring and disbelieving. Unlike his past gazes though, his focus was trained on Kiyoomi’s face. Atsumu’s brows were knitted together as if he were searching for something. “Do ya?”

The question struck Kiyoomi as rather arbitrary, until he noticed the way Atsumu had somehow closed the distance between them, his knee now resting against Kiyoomi’s thigh. He was keenly aware that they were most definitely breathing the same air, and if he were twenty-three, he would have blamed the holding of his breath on this. But two years had spelled out several things in block letters for Kiyoomi.

Kiyoomi swallowed. “I think so.”

Atsumu gave his crooked half grin, and there was something that looked a lot like fondness in the lines of his smile. “Let’s dance then.”

There were only three times in his life Kiyoomi could say he really danced. The first time was when he was six years old, dressed up like a superhero for a preschool dance party. The second time was two years ago, when Akaashi Keiji had compelled him to try a clumsy, melancholic two-step. The third time was now, as Kiyoomi was pressed against Atsumu, swaying lazily to a tune only the two of them heard.

Kiyoomi wasn’t sure the last time he’d been this close to someone. He tried to ignore the fact that the last time he was this close to Atsumu, he’d been saying goodbye. The memory was a knife in his stomach though, twisting with every breath.

“I’m sorry it took me so long,” he whispered into Atsumu’s shoulder. 

"I know."

"And I shouldn’t have made you wait." It wasn’t an apology, but a fact. Tears pricked Kiyoomi’s eyes, turning to ice as they fell before melting into the soft cotton of Atsumu’s shirt. 

A gentle hand carded through his curls. “I know.”

But the tears would dry, and everything would be okay.

_“Sometimes you’ll miss it, and the sound will make you cry._

_And some nights you’re dancing with tears in your eyes.”_

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so, so much for reading to this point! i hope you enjoyed my first (posted) attempt at sakuatsu, even though it's probably ooc. i had a lot of fun writing it though :)
> 
> drink some water! get some sleep! it's 3:07 am as i post this and i put off all of my hw to finish writing this heheh so i will pay the price tomorrow as i cram for a quiz. anyways, thank you once again! i love all of you who took the time out of your day to read my silly little story <3
> 
> come talk to me on [twitter!](https://mobile.twitter.com/hahahatsuna)
> 
> edit (11.19.20): it’s funny to look back at where it all started. I’m not going to thoroughly reread this story because then I would want to change _everything_ , but I think that if I were to, I would give a good, sentimental chuckle. hope you all are well.


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